thebluesquirreldiaryhttps://thebluesquirreldiary.com
politics, law and my left nutThu, 08 Mar 2018 18:49:14 +0000enhourly1http://wordpress.com/https://secure.gravatar.com/blavatar/243f7d197d0bc69e33f8f6bfc5027c89?s=96&d=https%3A%2F%2Fs2.wp.com%2Fi%2Fbuttonw-com.pngthebluesquirreldiaryhttps://thebluesquirreldiary.com
It’s The Season Of Kindness–Let The Magic Of The Season Help You To Help Our Seniorshttps://thebluesquirreldiary.com/2014/12/19/its-the-season-of-kindness-let-the-magic-of-the-season-help-you-to-help-our-seniors/
https://thebluesquirreldiary.com/2014/12/19/its-the-season-of-kindness-let-the-magic-of-the-season-help-you-to-help-our-seniors/#respondFri, 19 Dec 2014 23:36:58 +0000http://thebluesquirreldiary.com/?p=192Continue reading →]]>

You’ve Got Mail–the three most important words in my world during the holidays. And not emails and not for the reasons you might think.

Following several catastrophic medical issues, my beautiful vibrant parents needed special care and the only way they could remain together was in assisted living with occasional trips to rehabilitation and nursing facilities. They had been married over 50 years when they left me just a few months apart in 2010. Even though my mother had lost the ability to remember my daily visits, her smile lit up the room when I’d arrive each day.

Dad, a big man with a booming voice, would take a walk with me daily to the main desk of his new ‘home’ so he could update me on mom’s condition. I’d remind him that I still remembered what he’d told me the day before but then I would try to listen because it was becoming more and more apparent that he was going a bit stir crazy and needed these brief moments of sanity my visits would bring him in his new world of wheelchairs, walkers and set eating times. He always believed he would die in his garden sort of like Vito Corleone in The Godfather, but life and Alzheimer’s took mom and dad down a different path.

As we’d make our way to the mail desk, there would be dozens of regulars waiting in line, some sitting on their push cart walkers, some leaning on their canes. A few would mistake me as their daughter or granddaughter and would reach out to touch me or stroke my arm. My dad would whisper, “Play along,” afraid that I might do otherwise. He’d stop and speak to each one, then turn and tell me what they were doing ‘time’ for and how he had never seen their families visit. I tried not to judge the families of those that had placed their loved one here and disappeared from their life. Maybe their lives had taken a rough turn or two as well and they simply couldn’t find the time.

Time was the enemy–time and loneliness. Some, like my father, felt time moved like molasses while others were locked in private worlds where time had ceased to exist. But loneliness was universal for everyone, including my father who missed my mother, even though she was sitting right next to him most of the day.

Dad would get to the mail desk and he’d ask one of his ‘girls’ for his mail. They’d smile and hand him his usual stack of junk mail with a sprinkle or two of letters from old friends and family who lived too far away to visit. Mom and Dad always had mail. As dad would stand aside sorting his stack the next resident would approach and the next and the response was always the same:

Their eyes told the entire world how sad they were. My heart ached. Some would look at dad and if he had a piece of junk mail, he’d say:

“Hey Jacob, here,” as he handed him the flyer from the local insurance agency. “Your mail got stuck in my pile.” Jacob would eagerly take the ‘gift,’ and shuffle off clutching his mail like newly discovered gold.

Dad would sort through his stack continuing to distribute his mail to others and then we’d return to his room. I told him how sad this daily trip made me and he stopped and asked a question he’d asked me no less than a hundred times throughout my life, “So, what are you going to do about it?” It was a family rule that you couldn’t complain about something unless you had a plan to fix it. And dad had just invoked THE RULE.

Our family sent out over a hundred cards to friends and family each year, sometimes with a funny newsletter and photos of the kids as they grew and we received hundreds in return. It was an exhausting and time consuming ordeal every year, one I had stopped enjoying long ago but continued because I thought it was expected. You send them, you receive them.

This was the holiday game we all played. I was thinking what could I do? Nothing, I didn’t have any time. But I did. And so, instead of sending that stack of cards to all my friends, I sat down and sent a card to each person in the assisted living facility and every staff member with a note.

It took me days to complete. My husband and I, along with dad, sat in the main hall as resident after resident made their way up to the front desk and asked for their mail. Each and every resident received a card. The room was alive. You could feel, taste, touch, hear and see the happiness as no one went away empty-handed. Dad was proud of me and truthfully, I felt pretty darn good.

For the next week and for many more, I would see the cards I had ‘mailed,’ in their baskets or tucked in the pockets of their robes. This simple act had created much more joy than I had ever anticipated.

And my family has continued to do this. But that isn’t the point of this story.

I knew I could do more. So after dad and mom left me, I set about telling my friends on my Facebook pages how they could help in my attempt to deliver mail to every senior in a facility across the United States. Some were teachers or Scout leaders who took up the cause and in 20 minutes had their group put together 100 or more cards to be delivered. Each year the “You’ve Got Mail” event started a few years ago at my kitchen table has quietly grown, under the radar, but it has grown.

This year, I decided I wanted to take this nationally and my friends at Addicting Info agreed to give me this platform and I’m truly grateful.

So here’s what you can do:

It is as simple as buying a few boxes of cards in the discount bin after the holidays or wherever you can find them. If you have a captive audience of any kind, co-workers at lunch, teachers with students, social clubs with members that meet, book clubs, political groups, Scout leaders, church members, family get-togethers—any group that gets together for any reason will work. And let the kids help. It’s a life lesson they will carry forever.

It only takes a few minutes and everyone feels good about themselves. Trust me.

Last night we attended an ‘ugly sweater’ holiday party. With the hostess’s approval, I brought 10 boxes with over 150 holiday cards and envelopes. I brought pens. And after everyone had enjoyed a wonderful meal, I announced the card signing event and I had hoped it would be well-received.

And it was. Everyone joined in. Every single person sat down at the coffee table, around the fireplace and in chairs throughout the house writing cards and sharing their messages with each other. My heart was filled with memories of my parents and past holidays.

Some wished the recipient a warm and wonderful new year while others wrote long detailed notes for the recipient to enjoy.

No names are necessary. While we all signed ours with our first names, the envelopes remained blank because the facility knows who needs these cards and will handle the distribution of them. They know the haves and the have-nots better than anyone.

There are nursing homes and assisted living places in every city and town across America. You can easily find one close to you home. Call and let them know you are on the way over with a bag of cards. They will gladly be there to receive them.

20 minutes after we started signing the cards, we were done and all the cards were in a bag and are ready for delivery this week. I won’t hang around this time to watch the faces light up but I know they will. I can feel it in my heart.

JOIN ME and make this a holiday tradition. Any holiday will do. The residents are as lonely on Valentine’s Day, Mother and Father’s Day and the Fourth of July as they are the rest of the time throughout the year. And you have the ability, we all have the ability, to make a huge difference.

]]>https://thebluesquirreldiary.com/2014/12/19/its-the-season-of-kindness-let-the-magic-of-the-season-help-you-to-help-our-seniors/feed/0elderly womanthebluesquirreldiaryelderly womanThe author's new and old friends at the annual Ugly Sweater partyTwo friends enjoying the spirit of the holidaysMargie, the dog, and friends at the Ugly Sweater party sharing cards and good timesBe Grateful And Tighten Your Belt. This Liberal Freeloader Has Had A Revelation (SATIRE)https://thebluesquirreldiary.com/2014/08/13/be-grateful-and-tighten-your-belt-this-liberal-freeloader-has-had-a-revelation-satire/
https://thebluesquirreldiary.com/2014/08/13/be-grateful-and-tighten-your-belt-this-liberal-freeloader-has-had-a-revelation-satire/#respondWed, 13 Aug 2014 18:06:33 +0000http://thebluesquirreldiary.com/?p=182Continue reading →]]>Be grateful. That is what I am hearing from my conservative friends and I’m listening and would suggest that all my liberal, progressive and moderate friends listen as well. This is life changing information.

Liberals are ATM machines for the lazy. You have created a giant government to support your addictions. Liberals think money grows on trees but it is the tree of Corporate America and we conservatives are tired of WELFARE (big government) programs and the unemployed. Everyone could find a job if they just got off their lazy ass and looked for one. You college kids–your grandparents worked for minimum wage, so can you. Catastrophes have been happening for centuries. FEMA? That’s just another liberal handout for those who have a little water in their basement or a crack in their swimming pool. Your parents are already sucking the life out of me with their demands for Social Security and Medicare. ‘Free money?’ Where do you think that comes from? My pocket. You are taking money out of my pocket to pay for the homeless, the disabled, the unemployed, the sick who are too lazy to get a job or buy insurance. We worked hard for our money. We saved. We followed the American Dream and socked our money away for a rainy day. Some of us inherited a few bucks. Big deal. Now you want to tax it. NO WAY. That money was taxed 80 years ago when my great-grandfather earned it working like a dog building his little business. Some of us went to college and got high-paying corporate jobs while you were working in manufacturing on the assembly line earning $10 an hour. You should have asked for overtime or worked a second job. That is the American Dream. Now you want me to GIVE you my money. I will loan you some money, but I want something in return. My kids go to private school so I’m tired of paying for your kid to go to public school. Shave off a few billion from your public education ‘budget.’ No more unemployment benefits after 8 weeks. Eight weeks is enough. After two months you are simply a freeloader. I don’t care that you ‘paid’ into it. Go find a job and you won’t need it. Give me your collective bargaining agreements. No more unions. Unions promote thievery. Union workers are merely thieves with their hand in my pocket. Teachers are perfect examples. You need to provide your own pensions and save your own money. You wouldn’t know a budget if it slapped you in the face. You are spendthrifts with our money. Quit whining about long work days. It only makes you sound as lazy as you are. And stop comparing your job to the job of our CEOs. They are the brains and you are merely the replaceable parts. If you don’t believe me, look behind you. There are dozens of people waiting to do your simple mindless jobs. Big government must be destroyed.

Walk into the light of Corporate America.

I think I get it now. Be grateful for the ability to earn a living from an employer that is ‘gifting’ you a paycheck and in some cases, providing you and possibly your family, benefits such as health care and pensions. Be grateful and ‘give back’ some of that in tough times. Take that reduction in pay when the employer tells you he is struggling, pay more when those benefits are costing your employer more and above all be grateful.

I hear money is tight and this economy is tough on all of us–but we don’t need MORE government. We need less because this tough economy is super-tough on Corporate America. Simple charts showing gigantic profit increases are fabricated to make Corporate America look bad. I just need to work harder and harder. I need to let my employer have some breathing room. Those regulations are strangling my corporate employer. Clean air? Clean water? Safety rules? Just be more careful. It is costing me my job. My employer can’t stay in the U.S. with all these regulations. If something isn’t done to reverse all these regulations (like dismantling the EPA and workers’ safety rules), my employer is going to ship all the jobs, including mine, overseas. Then where will my family be? Unemployed.

And for all that is holy, do not suggest taxes. Corporate taxes destroy private jobs. And oil companies need subsidies because without them, they are simply going to take their corporate jobs overseas and again, I will be unemployed. I can pay taxes. I should pay taxes. Look at all I’m being given.
Leave Wall Street alone. Wall Street is the main artery handling our employers’ profits to support us. And we need support. Our employers can’t do it all. They are generously carrying us in these tough times and the same thing goes for the banks.

LEAVE the banks alone! The regulations are choking the life blood out of my bank. I need my bank. They give me things. Security that I have a place to put my paycheck from my employer. If I need a loan, and I can demonstrate that I have more money than the loan I’m requesting, they will loan me money. I was happy to bail out my bank and Wall Street with my taxes. It is my fault I bought a house that cost too much for me. At the time that the bank told me that I could have that mortgage, they were betting that I couldn’t pay for it. This is what makes my bank so important. They have had to lay off a lot of people because of my mortgage problems and if I had just worked harder for my employer and if I hadn’t bought that house, my employer would have made more profit and the banks would be full of cash.

Teachers, firemen, police and other local, state and federal workers are taking food off my family’s plate. They are lazy and we need to make sure that they can’t bargain for their income and benefits or my family will suffer. It isn’t me versus Corporate America. It’s me versus those lazy governmental workers. Corporate America is supplying me everything and when I’m sick and old, they are going to have some type of program that they are inventing now to help me because I won’t be able to work in my 70′s and 80′s because my body won’t work as well as it does now.

And I heard yesterday from my conservative church friends, that the church and my congregation will take care of me because that is how America works. Food banks and clothing drives is what made America great. We need to start being responsible for ourselves and our family and if we don’t have a family, we need to make sure we work hard enough that our neighbors will help us.

So I now have my walking orders. I’ve made a list to keep things organized in my head.

We need to dismantle Social Security because Corporate America can do better.

We need to dismantle Medicare because Corporate America can do better.

We need to dismantle Medicaid because Corporate America can do better.

We need deregulation of everything. Regulations strangle Corporate America.
We need to stop paying people for being unemployed. If they lose their job, they simply need to find another.

We need to eliminate all estate taxes especially on million/billion dollar estates. Those are our job creators.

We need to eliminate the employer’s contribution to payroll taxes. This tax costs jobs.

We need to eliminate all income tax for those making over $250,000 a year. The middle class can take care of the taxes to keep our government running. Taxpayers in the upper brackets need their money because they are the job creators.

We need to dismantle any health reforms and let the families, churches and neighbors take care of the sick.

We need to have Tort Reform and eliminate a person’s right to sue their doctor. Medical malpractice suits are driving up health care even in California which has had the strictest malpractice reforms since 1975 (MICRA).

No one should be allowed to join a Union. Corporate America will take care of us and knows what we need. We don’t need collective bargaining.

We need to set up free health clinics funded by the middle class and other charitable people volunteering their time. Health insurance companies need to be allowed to raise premiums as needed.

Oil companies need subsidies so they stay in America.

Agriculture subsidies are the backbone of our farming industry. We need to leave these subsidies in place.

We need to drill in America without any silly regulations preventing the oil companies from drilling anywhere offshore or anywhere they think oil might be found in the United States. We need to be independent of foreign oil.

We need to dismantle the EPA and other regulatory agencies that are weakening Corporate America and preventing them from hiring U.S. workers. The EPA is a job-killer and will force Corporate America to send our jobs overseas.

We need smaller government and government should stay out of our lives except when dealing with a woman’s reproductive system and then they should spend as much time in her uterus as they can; And they should also regulate all marriages between two humans because that is why the government was created in the first place.

To make sure all of the conservative leaders who will keep Corporate America happy are elected, we need to make sure that the elderly, young, disabled and minorities can not vote because they tend to be stupid and vote for liberals. Therefore we need to change voting procedures to disenfranchise these voters. Jim Crow laws worked in the late 1800′s until that disgusting Civil Rights Act of 1965, so Corporate America would ‘suggest’ (and it is only a suggestion but it sure would make them happy and a happy Corporate America is a happy conservative) that something akin to Jim Crow laws be reenacted in the immediate future and certainly before the 2012 2016 election cycle.

Corporations are people. Good people who take care of their own.

_____________

Note from the author: While this was published originally by The Pragmatic Progressive, Addicting Information and reposted in Newvine in 2011, nothing but the year of the upcoming election was in need of updating…sadly.

]]>https://thebluesquirreldiary.com/2014/08/13/be-grateful-and-tighten-your-belt-this-liberal-freeloader-has-had-a-revelation-satire/feed/0thebluesquirreldiarypoor people live longerWARNING! A Facebook Friend Of A Friend Might Turn Out To Be Someone Who Sexually Assaulted Youhttps://thebluesquirreldiary.com/2014/07/31/warning-a-facebook-friend-of-a-friend-might-turn-out-to-be-someone-who-sexually-assaulted-you/
https://thebluesquirreldiary.com/2014/07/31/warning-a-facebook-friend-of-a-friend-might-turn-out-to-be-someone-who-sexually-assaulted-you/#respondThu, 31 Jul 2014 01:32:24 +0000http://thebluesquirreldiary.com/?p=177Continue reading →]]>It was a very ordinary day. At least I think I remember it being ordinary. It was late spring, perhaps early spring; truthfully, I remember little about that morning or how it began or what the weather was like. Until last week, I had buried every single second of that day–buried it so deep that I never even stumbled over it in 44 years. And but for a private message on Facebook, it might have remained buried.

Junior High was a time of much ‘loveU4ever,’ going steady and unrequited crushes evidenced by Pee Chees tattooed with ‘Mrs. ?’ written over and over again with the question mark representing one of the countless hunks in our ninth grade class. It had been a year or so since my first French kiss and there may have been others but those memories have now faded. My father, a police officer, lectured my sister and me about dirty old men like my uncle who married one of my father’s younger sisters and I was warned never to sit on his lap and I didn’t. My sixth grade science teacher was arrested for incest. He scared most of us girls. The lights would be turned off for a science movie and he’d invite this one particular girl to the back to help him run the projector. I was too afraid to look but I always felt he was a very bad man. My sixth grade gym teacher was an ex-Marine and wore his hair short and tight with a bizarre curl of his ‘bangs’ and his elbows ‘accidentally’ brushed my bra-less budding breasts and I learned to duck and avoid until one time in seventh grade, when he was teaching at another school, he found me in the public swimming pool and lowered his hand to a place that I knew was no accident. I swam so fast, got out of the pool and felt lucky. I didn’t tell my parents because … had I done something wrong? It felt wrong and that is all I knew–that and to never let him near me again.

We were also warned never to go into a boy’s house unless his parents were home. But I wasn’t afraid of the boys in my class. They were young and they weren’t frightening. I remember a girlfriend from my 8th grade class asking if I would go with her to a singing group that met in the early evenings a few times a week and sang at the malls and such during the weekend. She had a crush on one of the members. Sure, why not? That’s what friends do. The group was fairly large and there were so many cute boys. She and I joined around the end of our 8th grade year but then she stopped liking the boy and eventually got tired of going and that was the end of that for her. I remember the last meeting I went to. I was in 9th grade and there was a tragedy involving another friend. My dad sent someone to pick me up and I never returned. Many of the older members had gone onto high school and several had left to travel with the national singing group. One of those that left was so handsome. I was sure he liked me for awhile until I heard several of the older girls talking about hooking up with him. He never tried to even hold my hand. I stopped writing his name on my Pee Chee.

Then that very ordinary day happened. That same girlfriend that got me to join the group found me just before lunch. She was out of breath and I remember thinking something wonderful had happened. She blurted out that the young man I had the crush on was back from the national tour and was staying at his aunt’s house two blocks from our junior high. He wanted to see me or at least I think that is what she said–maybe I just wanted to hear that. I left campus during the lunch hour–something I had never done and would have been grounded forever plus one day had my parents found out–but it was just for an hour.

Everything I remember about that day was ordinary. His aunt’s house was an ordinary red brick house with an ordinary white door. I had practiced what I would say to his aunt but when I rang the bell, he answered the door. He didn’t look the same. His hair was longer and he had facial hair and it was real–not like the silky strands on the lips and chins of the boys in my class. His sideburns were long and curly and coarse. They came to a blunt cut and were wider at the bottom. His face had stubbles like he hadn’t shaved recently. Shaved? Only those boys in my class who had been held back shaved or maybe some did but not daily. He invited me in and I went without hesitation. He headed down the stairs into the basement and I followed. It was a finished basement but not decorated. He said his aunt was at work and that we were alone. I remember an old couch and the room didn’t have much light. It felt cave-like. I remember I was wearing a corduroy skirt–most certainly knee socks but I don’t remember them. Girls weren’t allowed to wear pants or jeans–they violated the dress code. He was wearing blue jeans and had a plastic cup of ice tea. I remember when he handed me the tumbler, it was sweating. I turned to place it on the end table which was an old TV tray. It took me a second or two because there was a lip on the side of the tray and the cup almost tipped over. I felt his weight on the couch as he sat next to me. I turned as he placed his hand on my neck. I knew as sure as I knew my name that he was going to kiss me. I was ready.

There was no kiss. He grabbed the back of my neck and with force started pushing me towards his lap. He had his pants wrapped around his ankles and I was looking at a purple grotesque erection surrounded by a mound of pubic hair. I pushed back and I remember screaming at him. Stop!….No!….I remember struggling. I turned my head as it slid across my cheek into my hair. I was thrashing using both hands trying to stand–to break free and then my face felt wet and white globs of semen sprayed my face and fell onto my arm. He squeezed the back of my neck and one breast and then shoved me–hard. I slipped off the couch and hit my head on the coffee table. I was sprawled between the old red and brown couch and table and I remember looking down at the filthy floor and I tried standing. I remember crying and looking at him. And I remember he looked at me and laughed. He told me to get up and get out. As I was fumbling with my clothes he started shouting at me.

What did you think we were going to do–make out? That is for babies! Come back when you are a woman.

I remember those words as if he spoke them to me yesterday. I headed up the basement stairs and he didn’t even bother to follow me. When I opened the front door the light blinded me but I was safe. I pushed back my hair and it was sticky and my arm and hands were dirty as well from rolling on the floor of hell. There was a garden hose next to the front stoop. I turned it on and washed my hands, arms and hair. Looking like a wet rat, I returned to school. I know I went home that day and it had to have been by school bus. But I have no memory of anything after I washed myself off with his aunt’s garden hose. It is a black empty space in my brain’s memory banks. I never told a soul. Not a girlfriend, not a boyfriend, not my parents, not my husband. I have vivid memories of another attempted sexual assault in college in the dorm, but every detail is crisp and sharp. I talked about it many times. Not this time. Not this place. I never saw him again–that I most certainly remember. Until….

Facebook, private messenger, last week. It seems he is a ‘friend of a friend’—in fact of three friends that I have friended over the years from a class two years ahead of mine. They aren’t close friends and I doubt we have written to each other more than two posts in five years. I haven’t seen their status updates in forever—years—literally, years. Yet, they are there and have access to my photos, to my ‘throw back Thursday” pictures of junior high, to my family, to my memories. And because he is a friend of theirs, he has access. Oh, I thought I had all the bells and whistles and protection Facebook offers to those of us that want to make sure that unknown creeps can’t find us. Being a writer exposes my personal information but I still believed that somehow I was protected. He had stopped by to invite me to a reunion of the singing group–“bring photos–we’ll share memories.”

And then the memories of that lunch hour came rushing in and I couldn’t stop them this time. My husband and I were watching television and I was Facebooking on my iPad and tears dripped down my face as every ugly moment whorled and twisted in my head. Closing my eyes didn’t shut off the memories. Not this time. I turned and told my husband I had something to share–an awful ordinary day. I am able to speak about it now–the parts that I remember. It helps to desensitize the shame that I felt for a brief moment–stupidity shame. Stupid went into that house. Stupid let him find me on Facebook. He is wrinkly, bald and ugly–much like his penis decades ago and I laugh when I think of that comparison. Laughter flushes the dirty feelings from my brain.

You must determine what Facebook does for you and how much you know about your friends’ friends. I am not the Facebook police–just a stranger with a story about sexual assault, Facebook and some privacy issues.

]]>https://thebluesquirreldiary.com/2014/07/31/warning-a-facebook-friend-of-a-friend-might-turn-out-to-be-someone-who-sexually-assaulted-you/feed/0thebluesquirreldiaryfacebook sexual assault posterDrug Company Demands Billions For Curing Hep C–$1,000 Per Pill–Playing God Or Grim Reaper?https://thebluesquirreldiary.com/2014/07/25/drug-company-demands-billions-for-curing-hep-c-1000-per-pill-playing-god-or-grim-reaper/
https://thebluesquirreldiary.com/2014/07/25/drug-company-demands-billions-for-curing-hep-c-1000-per-pill-playing-god-or-grim-reaper/#respondFri, 25 Jul 2014 20:01:38 +0000http://thebluesquirreldiary.com/?p=168Continue reading →]]>What if we woke up tomorrow to the headline: Drug Company Cures Alzheimer’s? What would you pay to get your hands on that drug? I know of no one that hasn’t been touched in some way by this disease. Tomorrow won’t bring us that news but I believe it will in the future. So, how much would you pay? And if you can’t afford it, should the government step in and pay to heal you, your mom, your dad, your sibling or best friend? Should the drug company be required to give up the drug for the good of the world? Who should make those decisions? Who gets to play God and who gets to play the Grim Reaper in this future drama? And who has the lead roles in today’s drama involving Hepatitis C?

Last December, the FDA approved a new drug, Solvaldi, manufactured by Gilead Science Inc. Its purpose–to cure hepatitis C, a chronic, sometimes deadly disease, that has affected over 130 million people worldwide and kills between 350,000 and 500,000 per year. And the cost of the cure: Approximately $84,000, or$1,000 a pill for a 12-week treatment course, for those afflicted in the United States while other countries are fairing much better in out-of-pocket costs. Gilread, through its president and COO, John Milligan, indicated that to date about 9,000 patients had been cured. Using this data to justify the cost of its golden cure to those questioning the costs associated with the treatment, Mr. Milligan stated in a conference call with analysts on Wednesday:

The healthcare system will save a lot of money with these people being healthy again.

So what Mr. Milligan is saying is that Solvaldi, in the long run, will save the healthcare system a lot of money by curing those that would be dependent upon the system for his/her care and whatever they decide to charge will pay for itself over time. What he doesn’t say is that Gilead Science Inc. is making billions, with analysts estimating that the drug’s first year sales will exceed $10 billion. This has caused two members of the Senate Finance Committee, Oregon’s Democratic Senator Wydan and Iowa’s Republican Senator Grassley to demand information on how Gilead went about setting the price tag on this drug at $1,000 per pill.

The criticism has come from all corners of the healthcare industry. America’s Health Insurance Plans spokesman, Brenden Buck released a statement about Gilead’s success,

While it was a blockbuster quarter for Gilead, people who can’t access the drug because of its price didn’t fare nearly as well.

Medicare, Medi-Cal, Medicaid, veterans, the uninsured and prison inmates as well as others are knocking on the door for access to this medication. Three states are refusing to fund the drug until further information about its costs are made available. Some states are privately negotiating with Gilead to bring the costs down while others states and private insurers believe that the costs will add hundreds of dollars to its employer plans, Medicaid and Medicare with the taxpayers bearing the costs.

And what does this mean for you? Higher healthcare costs unless you are in a subsidized group and then, it may mean your family might be planning your funeral while you battle for approval for a drug that is needed by the poor and middle-class and priced for the investors of Gilead.

So when that cure for Alzheimer’s is packaged into a golden pill and offered up for sale, how much will you be willing to pay?

We haven’t seen the last of Gilead–it is out to save the world one illness at a time–so long as its investors can tuck billions away for a rainy day. The New York Times reported:

Early in the day, the Food and Drug Administration approved Gilead’s drug idelalisib to treat three types of blood cancers. It will be sold under the name Zydelig.

Hepatitis C….cancer. Will you be priced out of the remainder of your life?

]]>https://thebluesquirreldiary.com/2014/07/25/drug-company-demands-billions-for-curing-hep-c-1000-per-pill-playing-god-or-grim-reaper/feed/0thebluesquirreldiarypills hand full of pills17 Year Old Faces Jail Time For Tweeting The Names Of The Two Males That Sexually Assaulted Herhttps://thebluesquirreldiary.com/2012/07/23/17-year-old-faces-jail-time-for-tweeting-the-names-of-the-two-males-that-sexually-assaulted-her/
https://thebluesquirreldiary.com/2012/07/23/17-year-old-faces-jail-time-for-tweeting-the-names-of-the-two-males-that-sexually-assaulted-her/#commentsMon, 23 Jul 2012 03:48:07 +0000http://thebluesquirreldiary.com/?p=158Continue reading →]]>

Savannah Dietrich of Louisville, Kentucky, is now facing contempt of court carrying a possible 180 days in jail and a $500 fine for using Twitter to out her juvenile attackers after she learned of the leniency granted them in a plea agreement on June 26, 2012. A hearing on the charges being brought against Ms. Dietrich is scheduled for July 30, 2012.

Naming her assailants on the social media site, Twitter, Savannah tweeted:

There you go, lock me up. I’m not protecting anyone that made my life a living hell.

Her story begins in August, 2011, when she passed out at a gathering and was assaulted by two acquaintances. A few months later, she learned that photographs had been taken of the assault and were being shared she explained in an exclusive with a reporter from the Courier-Journal, with her father and attorneys sitting close by during the interview.

For months, I cried myself to sleep. I couldn’t go out in public places. You just sit there and wonder, who saw (the pictures), who knows?

After making a formal complaint to the Louisville Metro Police, the two juvenile male defendants were purportedly charged with first-degree sexual abuse, a felony, and misdemeanor voyeurism and later, plead guilty to these charges after a plea agreement had been reached without any input or involvement of Savannah or her parents. While neither Ms. Dietrich, her parents or attorneys could discuss the actual sentencing recommendation, she and her family were very upset, felt it to be a slap on the wrist–“like they were given a very, very light deal.”

Following the hearing, Savannah indicated that she was very angry, perused the order against dissemination of what happened in court and the plea agreement, itself, and then reviewed the laws on confidentiality before setting about posting several tweets revealing the identification of her attackers and her feelings about the plea agreement and process. Several of these tweets were reviewed and posted by the Courier-Journal:

They said I can’t talk about it or I’ll be locked up. So I am waiting for them to read this and lock me up. _____ justice.

Protect rapist is more important than getting justice for the victim in Louisville.

There was no comment by either the attorneys for the defendants or the prosecuting attorney but several free speech and victim’s groups weighed in on both sides of the issue. Seems everyone had an opinion as to what Savannah should or shouldn’t have done. One activist group proclaimed that one should not lose their rights to speak about something merely because it occurred in court while another from a victim’s group stated that Ms. Dietrich should have followed the court’s order, appealed it or minimally, asked the court to vacate its order freeing Savannah to speak, tweet and post.

Me…well I’m an attorney. I am suppose to give deference and respect to the court’s orders and follow the letter of the law. But I am not Savannah, nor was I sexually assault by two depraved rapists who then shared photos of the assault with others. I am most certain that Savannah did not seek nor receive permission from her own attorneys prior to posting on Twitter. In fact, they (the public defenders representing Ms. Dietrich) advised her that the interview with the Courier-Journal could be another violation of the judge’s order and stepped in and prevented her from revealing information that they felt was clearly sealed by the court’s order.

But that is of little import now. This young lady has what the prosecutor lacked. Courage. Had the prosecutor included her in the plea agreement and allowed her to participate in the justice system—she wouldn’t have been assaulted again, this time by the system that was suppose to protect her and bring justice for the wrongs done to her. Now her attorneys and the newspaper are seeking to have her contempt hearing open to the public and media as is allowed under state law, but are facing a battle as the attorneys for the defendants are seeking a closed hearing to protect the identity of the juvenile defendants, as is also Kentucky law.

]]>https://thebluesquirreldiary.com/2012/07/23/17-year-old-faces-jail-time-for-tweeting-the-names-of-the-two-males-that-sexually-assaulted-her/feed/5thebluesquirreldiarytwitter-contempt“I’m Voting Democratic Because I Have A Memory” And I Am All In for Obama 2012 (Videos)https://thebluesquirreldiary.com/2012/07/20/im-voting-democratic-because-i-have-a-memory-and-i-am-all-in-for-obama-2012-videos/
https://thebluesquirreldiary.com/2012/07/20/im-voting-democratic-because-i-have-a-memory-and-i-am-all-in-for-obama-2012-videos/#commentsFri, 20 Jul 2012 03:03:38 +0000http://thebluesquirreldiary.com/?p=142Continue reading →]]>If you are thinking of voting for the GOP it’s because you have lost your mind–or your memory. You’ve forgotten just about everything except the lies that you’ve been told over and over again these past three and a half years. You’ve forgotten the lies about WMDs that took us to war. You’ve forgotten the unprecedented amount of filibusters that have ground our Congress to a screeching halt. You’ve forgotten Citizens United and the GOP’s love-fest with corporations and super pac money. You’ve forgotten the endless debates about women’s reproductive organs and the attempt to end equal pay for equal work no matter your sex. You’ve forgotten the Bush Tax Cuts and the attempt by the GOP to privatize Medicare. You’ve forgotten so much more.

Barry Davis has written, published and produced “(I’m Voting Democratic Because) I Have A Memory.” But he’s taken it a BIG step further. He is soliciting testimonials on your memories and the reasons you are voting democratic and for President Obama in 2012, putting together an “I Have A Memory” YouTube catalog to awaken the voters who may have forgotten.

The song “(I’m Voting Democratic Because) I Have A Memory,” sung by Sam Saletta, is available for downloading on iTunes and you may play it here as often as you like. I have taken to singing it everywhere and play it loudly and proudly.

For those who would like to upload a short testimonial as to why you are voting democratic in 2012 and why your memory is still crystal clear, here is an instructional video to help you format your 15 seconds of fame, where to upload it on YouTube and where to send the URL.

Me? I haven’t forgotten. I have a memory…..many memories…..and I’m all in for Obama 2012.

]]>https://thebluesquirreldiary.com/2012/07/20/im-voting-democratic-because-i-have-a-memory-and-i-am-all-in-for-obama-2012-videos/feed/2thebluesquirreldiarybush-i-screwed-you-allDear Diary: How I, A Medical Malpractice Attorney, Lost Both Parents To Medical Negligence, Pt. V, Dad’s Journey Endshttps://thebluesquirreldiary.com/2012/05/05/dear-diary-how-i-a-medical-malpractice-attorney-lost-both-parents-to-medical-negligence-pt-v-dads-journey-ends/
https://thebluesquirreldiary.com/2012/05/05/dear-diary-how-i-a-medical-malpractice-attorney-lost-both-parents-to-medical-negligence-pt-v-dads-journey-ends/#commentsSat, 05 May 2012 17:50:57 +0000http://thebluesquirreldiary.com/?p=126Continue reading →]]>My husband and I made a deal. He would take dad and stay with him for any examinations involving a Urologist. I was a 54-year-old who had not seen her father’s penis and my dad wanted to keep it that way. The initial appointment was made with a West Hills, California, doctor by the name of Ian Gale. Dad’s chief complaint was incontinence. As he would complain, “the spigot was on and wouldn’t turn off.” The referral was through his new milk-toast whiny family doctor but we had no one who had any other recommendations and the appointment was booked.

My husband and dad showed up, dad gave a urine sample, had a rectal exam and I had sent dad’s prescription list and his medical history to be reviewed by the doctor and placed in his file. A follow-up appointment was made to perform a cystoscopy (where they send a flexible tube attached to a camera through the urethra into the bladder) as standard procedure given the repeated occurrence of “flowers” in his bladder. Dad called them flowers because his first urologist referred to the distinctive shape of one as a flower. The rest of us called the growths cancer. As long as they were caught in the early stages, they were easy to remove and the hour procedure was handled as an outpatient procedure with an epidural.

Sounds simple, doesn’t it? I thought so. My husband told me that dad had been given some samples to help with the incontinence and needed heart and pulmonary approval for the surgery. I immediately booked both appointments. Because of his recent broken back, the stress test by the cardiologist was handled with a chemically induced stress procedure and the pulmonary tests were passed with flying colors by a man who had smoked for 60 years. And then dad started to have hallucinations.

These were not the same hallucinations as when he was left under the tarp at the hospital on a morphine drip but new ones. He saw a “clock maker” who was winding the giant clock at the assisted living facility. He claimed the clock maker spoke with him and told him that “time was slipping by” and my father had to do “something about it.” I questioned Dad and asked him if he might have dreamed the clock maker. He was adamant and angry that I was questioning, once again, his mental status and claimed that black ravens were attacking him in his sleep and were pecking his anus. I had been told by the staff at the assisted living that dad had asked about the clock but overall, he was able to take care of himself and mother whenever we were off site. Dad had a follow-up pre-surgical visit scheduled with Dr. Gale and my husband again attended the appointment. Again, my father was given a free sample of the incontinence medication but in a larger dosage. Within days of this visit, dad was unable to distinguish reality from fantasy. He was beyond reasoning.

I emailed and then booked an immediate appointment with mother’s neuro-psychiatrist for dad. He was placed on antipsychotics and I informed Dr. Gale of dad’s current status and the need to delay his surgery. At that time, I also asked whether the drug that dad had been given, Vesicare, could possibly caused any complications. I received a return call from Dr. Gale’s nurse that she had asked Dr. Gale and was informed that Vesicare had no side effects other than possible “dry mouth.” I failed to discuss Vesicare with the neuro-psychiatrist as dry mouth did not seem to be a problem that dad was having. But as the symptoms increased and the antipsychotic medications were being tweaked, dad was still suffering and he was entering a world similar to the one my mother was living in but his was also full of anger and agitation. More importantly, he seemed to be battling it differently, as if he knew that something was terribly wrong but couldn’t wake up from this nightmare.

And then I sat down to the computer and started researching. There was little information on Vesicare on the American sites that I checked, but it was the only thing in Dad’s life that had changed before the hallucinations had started. I left the United States and headed for England in my research. I discovered a few medical articles dealing with “BBB.” Blood brain barrier. Drugs that passed through to the brain. And one article clearly indicated that the elderly should not be using this drug because as one post indicated, if the urine is drying up, so is the fluid surrounding the brain. I immediately halted the Vesicare and informed the neuro-psychatrist and within a week or two, Dad was able to come off the antipsychotic and antidepression medications and although the memory of the clock maker and birds were still there, Bert was back. After informing Dr. Gale’s office that he was ready to go and that the Vesicare had, in fact, caused the event, I was informed that Dr. Gale wanted dad to repeat all of his pre-surgical tests.

I was livid but didn’t have to stew about it for long as both the cardiologist and dad’s pulmonary doctor stated that no new tests were needed and dad was set to go for surgery. I was warned by the cardiologist that dad was on a beta blocker for his heart and that he would inform Dr. Gale to maintain that before surgery. I also located hospital protocols for several major hospitals in the area, and all indicated that beta-blocker medications should never be stopped and that a surgical patient should take the drug as scheduled with a sip of water. Dr. Gale informed his staff to contact me and to tell me that he and his surgical team would handle the administration of the beta-blocker.

We presented ourselves, my father, husband and I, to the hospital on the day of the out-patient procedure. Dad was in good spirits and wanted to get “the show on the road.” I had my duties to handle. I brought a copy of Dad’s Medical Directive and Durable Power of Attorney along with 3 copies of his medication list (and faxed one to Dr. Gale’s office as well) and a copy of his medical history. I was given an unsigned medical consent form with the procedure clearly indicated on it: Transurethral resection (TUR). Basically, dad would have a cystoscope inserted into his bladder through his urethra and a tool with a small wire loop on the end would be used to remove the cancer. He would receive an epidural and would be back home in the afternoon if all went as expected.

I left all the information with admissions including one copy of his medication list, and then when we were taken to the surgical waiting area, I gave a copy of the medication list to the nurse assigned to Dad. I watched her put the list inside Dad’s black binder containing his medical information. And then we waited. And waited some more. And then we were told that the surgery had been delayed. And so we waited a little longer. I repeatedly reminded the nurse that dad had not taken his beta-blocker and that I had been warned by his cardiologist. She indicated that Dr. Gale would be handling this and had been informed. And then I met Dr. Gale for the first time.

He entered the room and I couldn’t believe there was enough room for him and his ego with the rest of us present. I introduced myself and attempted to speak with him about the beta-blocker and he told me that he had a cardiac-anesthesiologist that would be handling dad’s medications and epidural and dismissed my concerns. I then attempted to discuss the Vesicare issue and he again, dismissed me and actually turned and left the room in the middle of my question to him. I was stunned. But then the nurse came and took dad off to surgery and we were told to wait.

A few hours passed and I began to worry but then Dr. Gale reappeared and said the surgery had been a complete success and that dad would now be able to urinate freely. I told him that dad was urinating ‘too freely,’ and again he ignored me. He said that he was going to hold dad overnight as a precaution. I asked about his heart medications and he told me that the anesthesiologist had handled everything and that he would see dad at his post-op visit. And away he flew. Once again, I was in the middle of a question.

Time passed and they took us to see dad in post-op where we caught him flirting with the nurses. The anesthesiologist met with us and said dad was fine and that while he had tolerated the surgery well, he was having a bit of a problem getting the feeling back to his legs post-epidural and they would be monitoring this. And off he flew. We went with dad to his room where he begged for coffee and received chipped ice and apple juice. I took my last copy of the medication list and gave it to the nurse who taped it to the outside of dad’s black binder. There. I had done my job. We stayed until dad was tucked in for the night and headed over to be with mom. After she went to bed, we headed home knowing that tomorrow would be a very busy day. Little did we know.

I was giving mom her bath and my cell phone went off. I climbed out of the tub dripping wet and answered it when I saw “West Hills Hospital” on the caller ID. Dr. Gale was on the phone and he was screaming. “You need to get over here immediately. Your father is refusing to take his medications and his heart is acting up. He claims we are poisoning him.” What? I looked at mom, at my wet clothes and told him I was 10 minutes from being there and not to move. I then helped mom out, called for assistance to aid her in getting dressed and headed over to the hospital. Brian, dad’s 6 foot, 6 inch nurse, was standing next to dad’s bed with a Dixie cup of pills shouting at dad.

“What’s going on, Brian? Where’s the doctor? Are you okay, Dad?”

“They’re trying to poison me. Those aren’t my pills.”

“What about that Brian? And where the hell is Dr. Gale?”

“He left and these are his pills. We had to put him on a monitor. His heart has been all over the place and he needs these pills. We have also put in an emergency call to his cardiologist.” Brian stated in a sing-song voice as he placed the Dixie cup in my outstretched hand.

“Take a look at dad’s medication list, Brian, and confirm that these are his pills. And Dad, what makes you think they are trying to poison you?”

Dad’s skin was clammy and clearly he was in distress. He told me that the pills didn’t look like the ones he normally takes and I queried Brian who was looking at his computer on wheels that listed dad’s medications. He was doing some mental checklist and then confirmed that all the pills in the cup were on “the list” and that they looked different because in many instances the hospital uses a different manufacturer and the pills do not look the same as the ones we might purchase through a pharmacy. I asked dad if that was satisfactory and he took the cup and swallowed all the pills at once. He then laid his head on his pillow and appeared to fall asleep.

At that moment, the cardiologist entered the room and was extremely agitated. He said that he had reviewed the file and that dad had not received his beta-blocker as “we had discussed.” I explained the numerous times I had given the information to the staff and doctors and he set about with intravenous medications to bring dad’s heart under control. He couldn’t wake dad and I explained the recent events and he then turned to Brian and told him that he had left specific directions an infant could carry out and questioned whether Brian could handle it. The tension in the room was palpable. Brian nodded and the cardiologist left. Dad looked like he was having the best sleep of his life, so I headed out informing Brian that I could be reached by cell.

I returned in the late afternoon to find Dad in the exact position as I left him except there was a halo of sweat staining the pillow and bed sheets around his body and head. I screamed for Brian when I couldn’t wake dad and he slowly sauntered in as if he hadn’t a care in the world, including my father or me. He told me that dad’s heart was fine and I asked him about his inability to wake up. He looked totally unconcerned. I told him I wanted to know exactly what pills dad had taken. He told me he would get to it when he “had the time.” I demanded them now. He laughed. I followed him and he actually approached a nurse’s aid and loudly said: “Is SHE still behind me?” And then laughed again.

“No Brian, SHE is leaving and will find help from some place else,” I responded through clinched teeth as I headed for the elevator.

He chased me and I screamed for him to leave my father and me alone. I headed down to the main floor and to the administrators’ offices. It was locked but I could see a group of people in suits sitting around a conference table. I knocked and when the door was opened, the woman who answered asked if she could help me. I explained that my father appeared to be comatose and that I was concerned he had been overdosed with the wrong medications. I then said, “Contrary to my outfit and the way I look today, we should all be on the same playing field. I am a medical malpractice attorney and I do not come here with claims of malpractice lightly.” Every single person at the conference table stood up. The head of the hospital introduced himself and also informed me that the head of nursing was who had answered the door. They listened and then the head of nursing accompanied me to the 5th floor.

She called an emergency and sought the doctor on call. He eventually would be the doctor who ushered both dad and then mom from this life to whatever roads they were set to travel. He arrived at the same time my husband arrived. The room was spinning in my head and I just wanted to see the list of pills that dad had been given. My husband followed Brian to his station and demanded them. I looked at the list and bile rose in my throat. They were not my father’s medications. They were massive doses of antipsychotics, antidepressants and other drugs that were not present on any list I had brought or faxed. They had been sent by Dr. Ian Gale’s office and were placed in the computer superseding all drug lists that I had brought to the hospital.

Dad didn’t wake up until the next day. When he did, he wasn’t the dad that had been brought to the room. He couldn’t focus, his hearing, already poor, was non-existent and he was unable to speak coherently and would grunt. Dr. Ian Gale never returned to see what he ‘had created.’ He sent a sub who stood in the doorway to authorize a weekend discharge of a man who couldn’t walk or talk and asked me whether he had urinated. I explained that dad was wearing a diaper and he indicated that was enough information and signed his discharge papers. It listed follow-ups with the cardiologist, the pulmonary doctor, Dr. Gale and dad’s whiny family practitioner. We took dad back to the assisted living and placed him on the couch. He never slept in his bed again.

I made the appointments all for the same day in the same medical center area. I went from doctor to doctor with Ian Gale saved for last. It was clear that the man slumped over in the wheelchair drooling was not the man who they had met prior to surgery. No one could look me in the eyes. Simple instructions regarding medications but nothing else. Certainly no hope. The family doctor stated in a flat tone as if ordering cold cuts from a butcher that the elderly in dad’s condition rarely lasted 6 months although he had seen some last for as long as 2 years–but that was rare. No one spoke to dad who was hunched over and looking off into space, somewhere we couldn’t reach.

Dr. Ian Gale. I sat with dad and my husband in his office as Dr. Gale’s nurse entered and said she needed a urine sample from dad. I explained that dad would not be giving a urine sample but she could wring his diaper. She wheeled dad away with my husband and then they came right back. Shortly thereafter Dr. Ian Gale entered the room. He spoke to dad in a jolly voice asking how he was and did he have any questions. My head was about to explode and I only prayed that I would have enough self-control not to hit the shit-head. I explained that dad wouldn’t be talking today and then Gale turned and told my husband about the 6 month plan of chemotherapy that he had scheduled for dad. Chemo once a week in his office for 6 weeks and then once a month for the 6 months following. I told him to “talk to me.” He looked at me and I then got up close enough for the spittle on my lips to reach his face and stated: “We are not here for chemotherapy. I brought dad here so you could see what you did.”

He just went on talking about the treatment and why he recommended it, completely ignoring the obvious fact that dad wasn’t actually present in the room with us. I then told him again, we would not be having any chemotherapy and that I was there to fire his sorry ass. And he responded that he thought I might be angry but hoped I would reconsider. I told him I would not be reconsidering.

As dad’s condition began to improve it was only by baby steps. He needed someone with him to change him, take care of his skin, help to change clothes and aid in his feeding. The assisted living facility would provide the help but our bill would increase by $800 a month. Dad continued to sleep on the couch and finally they had to move them downstairs to the first floor for safety reasons. Dad could never help himself in case of a fire and was too large to be carried by the staff down the stairs. We handled the move ourselves. It was backbreaking but we no longer could afford any extras, like a moving company. Dad had good days and bad and I had my husband contact Dr. Ian Gale and ask that he voluntarily pay for dad’s extra care in lieu of a lawsuit. He informed my husband that he chose door number two: A medical negligence lawsuit. So I filed one immediately. I didn’t want to disappoint the man.

Mom had an action pending against her orthopedic from Crazyville and now dad had one against Dr. Ian Gale. His attorney called and said there would be “no settlement.” He claimed Gale wanted to clear his name in court. I then obtained the medical records—and what do you think I found? I discovered that Dr. Ian Gale had NOT simply performed the TUR procedure as signed off on by me, he had performed two additional surgeries, a TURP (a transurethral resection of the prostate) and a bladder neck reconstruction. Neither consented to by me or my father. Upon presenting these documents to Gale’s attorney, I received a call from my husband who said he had just received the most amazing settlement request in his entire legal career. Dr. Gale’s attorney claimed that Dr. Ian Gale had gone to India and returned after he had “a religious epiphany” and was hoping that the offer of settlement was still open. We settled immediately withOUT a confidentiality agreement. I wanted the world to know, on behalf of my father, exactly what happened.

And while Dad made a few more baby steps, he never was able to tend to his personal needs with the exception of crudely feeding himself with his hands.

Dad was amazing–even as his body was shutting down. My husband and I were speaking to both he and mom and told them that their depositions were set. I didn’t think he could pull it together and then he looked at me and said, “I want my deposition taken.” And he gave the deposition of his life–literally. He expended all the energy he had left. We took him to several specialists afterwards but no one even called us back after they completed their series of tests. Painful tests. His body was shutting down and he was living in a shell that no longer provided him with any natural movement. His head listed to the side and his muscles tightened and he only felt pain. Pain when we attempted to move him. Pain during the tests and once, he tipped over as I was moving him from the car to his chair following an appointment, and he fell. My arm got tangled in the seat belt and I could feel the weight of him breaking it. I begged him and we were inches from each other…”Please daddy, you have to help. My arm is breaking.” And I could see tears in his eyes and as hard as he tried, he couldn’t help. And then an angel (with her baby) appeared, parked the stroller and grabbed my dad from the other side and helped. His time was near.

I received a call in early June, 2010, in the early morning from the assisted living staff. Dad was having problems breathing. When I arrived Dad was laying in his bed, completely relaxed, and breathing easily. The fire department and paramedics were there and I knew that this was dad’s last ride to the hospital. I asked them to step out of the room. I brought mom in and told her she needed to tell dad good-bye. She was in her own world and laughed. “He’s not going anywhere. Wake up, Bert. Quit kidding around.” But daddy didn’t wake up, not then.

We met the ambulance at the hospital and the same doctor that had helped us after the medication overdose was on duty. So was a nurse I had never met. And we had met most of the ER nurses after the numerous visits we’d made with mom and dad. Over Thanksgiving in 2009, my son with a rare bowel infection, my mother with pneumonia and dad, who was attempting to help mom and forgot he couldn’t walk, fell out of his wheelchair and split his head wide open, were all in the ER and on the 5th floor together for the entire holiday week. Everyone knew us. But not this nurse. She whispered: “Have him admitted. Then tell them no more tests. Demand hospice.” She showed me a list of tests that they had scheduled for dad. It was a cruel list. But mom and dad had Medicare PLUS a private insurance and everything was covered 100 percent. Dad was an ATM machine. And they were going to make a withdrawal.

I followed her instructions to the letter. And they stopped everything and admitted him to the 6th floor hospice. Just before they moved us to his room, dad woke up. He looked at my husband and then at me and said, “Psst….over here.” I leaned down to hear his once booming voice whisper: “How big of a check do I have to write to get out of this joint.” My husband and I actually laughed. It was such a Bert moment. And then he looked at my husband and said, “Are we at the hospital or in a hotel?” My husband responded, “At a hotel Dad and they are taking you to the penthouse.” Dad never regained consciousness again. He passed 3 or 4 days later, it’s a blur. I played country and western songs for him and my husband soaked Q-tips with really expensive bourbon and wiped his lips. He seemed to really enjoy that. I know if he had his druthers, he never would have been sick a day in his life and always hoped that he would die in his sleep or have a sudden heart attack while gardening–and be dead before he hit the ground.

He left us on June 9, 2010. Dad’s journey here was over. But he never let me forget that Mom still needed someone and that someone was me and I certainly needed her.

To be concluded: Part VI-Mom and Dad, together again.

]]>https://thebluesquirreldiary.com/2012/05/05/dear-diary-how-i-a-medical-malpractice-attorney-lost-both-parents-to-medical-negligence-pt-v-dads-journey-ends/feed/5thebluesquirreldiaryBert and Chris resizedDear Diary: How I, A Medical Malpractice Attorney, Lost Both My Parents To Medical Negligence, Pt. IV-Dad’s Journeyhttps://thebluesquirreldiary.com/2012/04/18/dear-diary-how-i-a-medical-malpractice-attorney-lost-both-my-parents-to-medical-negligence-pt-iv-dads-journey/
https://thebluesquirreldiary.com/2012/04/18/dear-diary-how-i-a-medical-malpractice-attorney-lost-both-my-parents-to-medical-negligence-pt-iv-dads-journey/#commentsWed, 18 Apr 2012 00:02:17 +0000http://thebluesquirreldiary.com/?p=113Continue reading →]]>As I “sat hospital,” Dad returned to Crazyville to pack, sort, donate and prepare the downsizing that he now accepted as inevitable. He continued to wear his nicotine patch, sneaked a drink or two from a bottle he had stashed in the garage when mom’s family doctor had told him to ’empty the house of all alcohol immediately’ and called when he had found mom’s wedding rings. We had all searched in vain and hoped we’d find them as he was packing. And he did–in the last drawer of the last piece of furniture in the spare room tucked in a small jewelry bag along with a stash of pills.

Mom had announced that they were now “divorced,” and proclaimed she had flushed her wedding rings down the toilet. This was the night before we drove her to the mental hospital. I felt such relief–for him. While the rings were but a symbol of their marriage of almost 6 decades, he viewed finding them as a chance that all would right itself in his world–a world that was crashing around him.

He had taken a side-trip with me to an assisted living facility near our home–a one bedroom. He found it incomprehensible that after living all of his adult life in homes with 3 or more bedrooms, living rooms, dining rooms, two or more bathrooms and a den, he was downsizing to a two room studio-like apartment with no kitchen, a bathroom so small that one had to turn and straddle the toilet to shut the door and a combo living room, dining area, and den. More shocking was the cost: $5,000 per month but meals and medication management were included. More importantly, he could remain living with his wife.

I had set out early each morning for a week visiting local assisted living facilities capable of handling Alzheimer’s or residents suffering severe dementia and potentially aggressive behavior—behavior we had witnessed from mom during the prior month. We were still under the belief that mom would need lifetime care for her mental breakdown and would never be able to live in any other type of environment. The one bedroom unit was the only one I found that entailed more than a 12 by 12 solitary room and was by far the cheapest. Cheapest? I had already visited units costing upward to $100,000 for mom alone and more if dad came as part of the package deal. We had already discussed the desperate need to sell their home, furniture, most of their household goods and access a home equity line of credit on our home of 20 plus years.

Mom continued recovering from shoulder surgery and had been placed back in lock-down following a weekend in the hospital wing. Her surgery had been delayed to late evening the night after her admission and her doctor performed a ‘miracle,’ saving her arm but warned us that given her current mental state and the extensive damage she suffered from the failure to promptly treat her injury, things did not bode well for a successful long-term outcome. This orthopedist, unlike Dr. Stephen Chow (her prior ‘treating’ doctor) spoke calmly, repeatedly touched my mother, was unafraid of her mental status and gently walked us through her future with this new shoulder he was going to have to build. He observed the incessant talking and manic mood preceding and following the surgery and was well aware of the conditions in the mental health ward not the least being the staff who was unable to do more than simply maintain the status quo and patients that we observed wiping bodily fluids on the walls upon our first visit. The surgery took place on a Thursday and he made sure she stayed in the hospital wing with a ‘sitter’ through the weekend to protect her and his work.

Leaving my husband in charge of mom for the following weekend, I returned to help dad. I had spent hours online begging people to take Mollie, their dog. We had finally accepted that the closest no-kill facility that was willing to take her with her medical issues was in Utah and we began planning that three-day round trip when I offered a facility located miles north of Lancaster, California, $600 and they agreed with the understanding that we would donate as many things off of their online wish list as we could find in my parents’ home as we were getting ready for a mega garage sale.

And so it began. We sold his prized tools, shovels, a life-time of equipment that he cherished for pennies on the dollar. Hammers–a dollar, no matter the original cost. Table saws, grinders, refrigerator, new freezer, buffet, china hutch, formal dining table and kitchenette as well as two sets of bedroom furniture, keeping the smallest found in one of the guest rooms for their new abode. Stereos, television sets, mixers, coffee mugs, silverware, formal china–everything was on the tables for sale. We had no more room for items that he wanted us to “store” just in case. My father looked as tired as I had ever seen him—and as defeated. His life had Post-it note price tags attached to it. And the prices continued to go down as few people showed up in a community that was hit hard by the economic failures of the country at large, even more so in this community 100 miles north of Los Angeles with little or no industry to keep it on the map. And then we were done and that which we couldn’t sell, dad had us donate to the local mission. My husband arrived and he and my dad took Mollie for her last ride to the no-kill farm, a few hours drive away. Dad returned with tear stained cheeks telling me she hadn’t even turned to look as she galloped off to play with a goat. Mollie was gone.

Following mom’s release the next week with a bandaged arm/shoulder, we had already begun to notice many changes in her personality. She was no longer manic but suffered from extreme short term memory loss. She could not tell you why her arm was in a bandage nor why she had been hospitalized. She would ask if she had been in a mental institution but had no memory of our response. She remembered no response. She no longer wanted a cigarette or a drink. She had no desire to return to Crazyville, nor did she have any real memory of it. She remembered Mollie and seemed happy that Mollie had found a farm to move to but didn’t comprehend that Mollie had been her companion and friend, just a ‘nice dog.’ She was surprised by the new facility and quite fearful of strangers. Unlike Dad, she was content to stay in the two room apartment and was terrified of trying to fend for herself, depending on dad to take her to every meal and depending on me to arrange and handle all medical care and transportation as well as her hygiene. Both were now dependent on me to handle their finances and the sale of their home.

As days turned to months and we made our way through the post-operative physical therapy and arranged and met their new doctors, I continued to visit Crazyville to oversee the sale of their property (not even a nibble for months) and the upgrades needed to compete in the horrific real estate market. I watched as our own bank accounts took a beating, hemorrhaging with every carpet that needed replacing, wall that needed painting, monthly mortgage on an empty house and the rent on the assisted living facility that came due. They had no assets to speak of except that house and it was losing value daily and we were forced to drop the already low asking price even lower. Finally, a HUD buyer put in an offer, all hopes of equity gone by this time and the house remained in escrow well beyond the original closing date. In addition, HUD required fees and repairs unlike any other lender and we were also required to purchase special and very costly insurance for a non-occupied residence. Even that was a challenge as most insurance companies do not participate in that service and we were forced to use Lloyds of London. All papers were signed and the nightmare of selling their home concluded in late July, 2008. I have never been back except to appear in court in the action we filed against Dr. Stephen Chow for medical malpractice.

Dad was building a new life for himself and his wife in their two rooms and his depression was etched on his face. An attempt by his internist to prescribe an anti-depressant left him agitated and he had the doctor change and then discontinue the medication. His high blood pressure was still a concern and we always worried about the possibility that his bladder cancer would return, but he had beat it back twice and he had no concerns about it being a problem.

Dad’s main concern was keeping busy. He was angry that the staff would gently knock and then enter his room, even when he was in his ‘skivvies’ as he would explain. They needed to give mom her medications and couldn’t wait outside the door hoping he’d eventually hear them—so as with all others in the facility, it was a knock and enter policy. This drove him to the brink of exasperation. He would take daily walks to the local area shops but the neighborhood was rough and we worried about his safety. The facility itself was locked down but it sat in a gang area with graffiti on every surface capable of being spray painted. He didn’t seem to see it or perhaps he didn’t care. He certainly wasn’t afraid. He just wanted to get away—to work in his garage—to toil his garden and plant his vegetables. But he couldn’t. That part of his life ended and this new chapter had begun.

Dad asked me to take a walk with him. We looked at the roses in the garden and he told me he had volunteered to take care of the grounds but that the administrator had said that he was not able to because of liability issues. I could see his heart was breaking off a piece at a time. He then put forth a suggestion, one I knew he’d been contemplating for months. “How about Mom and I get ourselves a real apartment and we try living on our own?” I threw all my objections at him but he was determined that I think about it and help him make it a reality. I crunched numbers, called food delivery agencies, found automated medical devices with alarms that helped those with hearing/memory issues, found a picture phone so that mom could call me by simply pushing one giant button with my face located on it as well as my husband’s cell and her grandchildren. We could cut the costs significantly if we found the right place.

I took Dad around to several places all located within a couple of miles of our home and within walking distance of shopping malls. Then we found the one we were looking for—across the street from the mall, restaurants like IHOP and Chilis, clothing stores, a Wal-Mart, and while the apartment was small, it had a washer and dryer and a full bedroom and living room, an upstairs patio and deck and full kitchen. I told him the only way I would agree to this was if he had the gas range disconnected and agreed to use the microwave only. I was afraid with mom’s memory issues, she would forget the stove was on and well, I simply couldn’t live knowing that would be an hourly concern. He agreed. We placed a down payment and first month’s rent on the unit to save it. I purchased the phone and medical device, reserved the parking with the management to make it easy for me to pick them up for their medical appointments and Mom, Dad and I had an outing at Home Depot to buy the only thing that didn’t come with the unit, a refrigerator. I then stuck around a week later to accept delivery. We gave notice to the assisted living and I took a deep breath. This might work. For Dad’s sake, I so hoped so.

Then IT happened–a week later. He was helping mom out the door of their assisted living unit and a staffer was blocking the path. Dad was forced to back up suddenly and fell. He broke his back. I was called and informed that he had been transported to Valley Presbyterian and I needed to get to the ER. Upon arrival, Dad was “missing.” No one could figure out where he had been placed. After hours of searching the hospital, I informed them that we should call the police. We had even checked the morgue. A construction worker inquired as I sat in a chair exhausted, angry and scared if I was looking for an elderly man. He then pointed to a gurney covered in a blue tarp. I rushed to it and Dad was under the tarp having been covered to protect him from ceiling debris while the construction workers were working on it and then, he had been forgotten. He was on a morphine drip and hadn’t a clue where he was or why he was there. He explained he’d been on a “submarine under water” all day. I was so relieved I actually laughed—the blue tarp and the noises. A perfect storm for what turned out to be a life-long memory that he never was able to shake.

He was finally moved to a room and I made sure he was directly across from the nurses’ station because he was a bit delusional given the earlier problems. Now, Mom needed my help. My husband headed for the hospital and I headed for the assisted living down the road. She was alone, she hadn’t gone to dinner, no one had come to get her and she was so frightened. She had no clue where Dad was or why and was waiting….simply waiting for someone. I made myself very clear to the staff and administration. For the price we were paying, someone needed to make sure she was taken to her meals and helped if need be with daily issues that might arise. I told them I would split my day between the hospital and mom but I couldn’t be both places at once. I had been informed by the orthopedist that Dad was going to have a long recovery period and our lives were once again taking an unexpected turn. There was no apartment in their near future. The apartment manager was wonderful, rented the unit to someone else and I sold them the unused refrigerator for half what we paid so that I wouldn’t have to haul and store it.

Early the next morning, I arrived at the hospital and entered my father’s room on the fourth floor. He was sleeping. I leaned down to kiss him and a stranger looked back up at me. That man in that bed was not my father. I had frightened both of us and headed out to the nurses’ station. “Where’s my dad?” “Who’s your dad?” “He was the man in that room but that isn’t my father.” “Well that is the only person that has been in that room since the shift change and we don’t have a clue where your father is.” “Then FIND OUT!” And they did. It seems he had a ‘cardiac event’ in the late p.m. and no one thought to call me. They simply moved him to the cardiac floor one story up. Things were going pretty rough at this institution and they only got worse before they got better.

The internist assigned to his case refused my repeated demands that they take him off of Dilaudid. Dad was becoming more delusional as the days turned into weeks. The internist would agree, show me the order, and then upon my arrival in the early mornings I would find my dad hallucinating and ask to see his chart. Each and every time the chart showed that the evening shift had administered Dilaudid.

I ran between the hospital and the assisted living facility numerous times throughout the day and found mom sitting in her own waste with that confused look each and every time I arrived. She would ask the same questions as before and I would give her the same answers. I had hit the wall when I had the administrator come to their room. We came to an understanding immediately. One more event and not only would my mother be moving, but I would sue the facility for all moving expenses and any extra costs that moving her entailed including a private nurse, if need be.

I also informed him that a young staffer was to stay 100 yards from my mother. I had witnessed her pulling my mother’s injured arm and speaking to her in harsh tones that many would consider abusive about urinating on herself. When I told the young lady to step away from my mother, she stepped towards me in a threatening manner. That was her last mistake. Not only did I outweigh her by 100 pounds, but my IQ was at least that much higher than hers and she never approached me again.

My husband and I decided that the only way to ‘protect’ my father was to set up house in his room and sleep there. We blocked all staff from entering his room and I checked every pill he was given. Slowly he made his way out of the stupor and was ready to be moved to rehab. I then visited the administrators of the hospital at that time to inform them what had occurred from admission in the ER to the current date. Instead of sending him to a off-premises rehab facility, they suggested that my father be the first patient in their new, state-of-the-art facility which wasn’t opening for a month or so. He could be their sole patient with everyone practicing on him and at his beckon call. I visited the facility and agreed. While dad continued to have daily hallucinations, they stemmed from past events and no new ‘memories’ were created by the move. While problems arose, like an attempt to discharge him while we were out-of-town for the weekend, we left the facility with dad walking with a walker and wearing a brace. And while many things rose to the level of medical negligence, we chose not to pursue any additional action other than the meeting I had participated in with the administration.

Dad returned to the assisted living realizing that his dream of apartment living and being on their own was impossible in the immediate and seemed content to enjoy those friends that he had in the facility who cheered his return. Shortly thereafter, we decided given the treatment that mom had received or hadn’t received as the case maybe, we would move them to the assisted living across the street from the ‘apartment that almost was’ which was smaller, but slightly less expensive, closer and in a great neighborhood with a better facility and dining area. Once again I was back on duty. They now required all new doctors and all those things that go along with a move of any kind. I had long ago stopped taking care of myself or my own family but was just in survival mode.

As we were adjusting to all the new doctors, their office requirements and the like, mom watched the Animal Planet and Dad watched baseball and golf and tried to fit in again to a life he didn’t ask for and certainly didn’t want.

During one of these “meet the new doctor” visits we found out that Dad’s cancer returned and while the cancer didn’t kill him, the doctor did.

PART V: To be continued–Dad’s journey ends, a settlement is reached on behalf of mom and Dr. Stephen Chow and we are forced to sue Dr. Ian Gale for Dad’s nursing care after he negligently prescribed the wrong medications and performed additional unnecessary surgeries without consent on my father while treating his cancer.

]]>https://thebluesquirreldiary.com/2012/04/18/dear-diary-how-i-a-medical-malpractice-attorney-lost-both-my-parents-to-medical-negligence-pt-iv-dads-journey/feed/1thebluesquirreldiaryimg131.jpg croppedDear Diary: How I, A Medical Malpractice Attorney, Lost Both Parents To Medical Negligence, Pt III, Mom’s Journey To the Mental Wardhttps://thebluesquirreldiary.com/2012/04/09/dear-diary-how-i-a-medical-malpractice-attorney-lost-both-parents-to-medical-negligence-pt-iii-moms-journey-to-the-mental-ward/
https://thebluesquirreldiary.com/2012/04/09/dear-diary-how-i-a-medical-malpractice-attorney-lost-both-parents-to-medical-negligence-pt-iii-moms-journey-to-the-mental-ward/#commentsMon, 09 Apr 2012 20:34:22 +0000http://thebluesquirreldiary.com/?p=98Continue reading →]]>My husband and I were headed down the back roads to Crazyville following a week of unending phone calls at all times of the day and night from a woman, unrecognizable at times, who repeatedly told me she was my mother and secret calls from my father, a man with a booming voice that filled a room, now speaking in whispers, broken, tired and scared. It was Saturday, September 15, 2007, eight days following their appointment with their family doctor.

I was exhausted and we still had over 30 miles before we would arrive. I dreaded the moment we would walk in that house. She had broken me. Every hour was filled with drama. As soon as I would hang up, Mom would call again pleading one moment, screaming the next claiming Dad was stealing her pills, accusing us of colluding to keep her from her nightly drink, her medications and swearing on her life that dad was abusing her by pretending to give her the pills as posted on the pill chart but in actuality was stealing them for himself. She had placed numerous calls daily to her family doctor begging for help. Dad had spoken to the doctor and was completely lost. His world was collapsing in on him and he had little strength to continue. We were coming as reinforcements–to help him–to help her.

My cell phone rang and my hands shook as I answered—caller ID confirmed it was coming from my parents’ home. Dad’s voice cracked as he responded to my “hello.” “They just took your mom and honey, she wasn’t breathing. I think she had a stroke. I think your momma is gone.” Stop. Think. Ask the right questions.

“Dad, who took mom?”

“The ambulance. I was in the garage and when I came into the house, she was lying on the ground and she wasn’t breathing. I think she fell out of the chair and her neck was bent and she may have hit her head on the corner of the wall. Her arm was still attached to the table. I can’t drive, can you pick me up? Where are you?”

“We are about 25 minutes away Dad. We will come and get you. Where did they take her? What did the paramedics say?”

“They said that they got her to take a breath and put oxygen on her and told me they would be taking her to St. Mary’s ER.”

“Be ready, Dad. We will be there as soon as we can.”

I found it difficult to find my voice. It was coming out of my mouth but I didn’t recognize it. Adrenaline pouring into my bloodstream so quickly that I could feel my eyelashes on my cheeks when I blinked and wondered if I had just lost my mother. My husband started to pass an 18 wheeler on this back-road two lane highway and I shouted for him to get back in his own lane. “Pearblossom Highway is called ‘Death Alley’ for a reason,” I shrieked. By damned, I was going to get to my father and safely take him to the hospital. I honestly felt in my soul that he would die if we didn’t show up to help him.

We pulled into their driveway and he met us at the door. I ran past him to use the facilities and told him to go on out to the car and I would lock up and put their dog inside. We were back on the road to the hospital within 3 minutes of our arrival. Dad repeated the story we had heard but filled in a few details. She had peed herself and he had cleaned it up before the ambulance arrived because he didn’t want her to be embarrassed. Dad had gathered all of her medications and had given them to the ambulance driver. I swallowed all emotional responses and went on auto-pilot. I questioned him on every minute detail from the time they awoke to the time the ambulance pulled out of the driveway. I knew that when we arrived, if she was still alive, my job was just beginning.

We poured through the ER doors and I headed to find my mother. They told me that she was talking and was in bed 3. It was just past the admission desk and it was empty—no bed, only a table with a bag of pills. Another nurse indicated that she had been taken for testing and would return. We could wait outside. I declined her suggestion, sent Dad and my husband out to the waiting area and I sat down in a chair near the spot where her bed had been. And then she appeared, sitting upright in a bed talking with the attendants. She was beautiful and laughing. She spotted me and turned and told the technician, “That’s my daughter, Debi.” And turning to me she asked, “What are you doing here?” She seemed at peace with her world. No rantings, just concern etched on her face for me. I must have looked like hell, because she became immediately concerned about me. Then she asked about Dad and my husband. It was so surreal.

A young doctor approached the bed and I introduced myself. He then told me that he had no idea what had happened, “perhaps she hit her head,” but she did not have a stroke. She did, however, have a dislocated shoulder and they would be putting it back into place but wanted to observe her for awhile. He then said we could take her own in a few hours. He left. I immediately went to the waiting room, informed Dad and my husband of the miracle and headed back in with both of them. The roller coaster of emotions Dad had been on led me to suggest that my husband take him back to the waiting room and I would monitor mom in the confined area of the ER. She had no memory of any events except she continued to say she thought it was evening and she could see herself being taken out of their home on a gurney. The nurse came and took a history and as I gathered her bag of pills, it was apparent that someone had ‘lifted’ the Vicodin. They had recorded the Vicodin coming in with her, but it was no where to be found. I wasn’t surprised but it bothered me.

I sat and found myself speaking to my mom. Not the woman that had called dozens of times during the past week, but Mom. She was smiling….she was beautiful….she was alive. After we had been there for about an hour, she started to turn her head and her eyes rolled back, her teeth clinched and her facial muscles became taunt changing the actual structure of her face. Her left arm was holding the rails of the bed and she started flopping and twisting. I knew she was having a seizure and screamed for help. Two assistants wandered over as I watched my mom’s lips turning blue. They continued talking about what they were going to do later that evening and one shook mom’s toe. She continued to flail as the seizure continued to overtake her. I screamed at the two imbeciles to get a doctor. “NOW!” I shouted. The doctor heard me and came over on his own.

He asked me a number of questions about her seizure history (none) and what I had observed. I told him I observed her not breathing and she still hadn’t taken a breath–a few minutes seemed like hours. He called her name. He shook her. He used his knuckles on her chest and then he hit her and she took a breath. She was back but out of it. He then quickly explained that she had suffered a “tonic-clonic” seizure (one we would have referred to as grand mal) and that she was “postictal” (the state of disorientation following a seizure of this kind) and he wanted to try to set her dislocated shoulder while she was basically unaware of what was happening around her. He attempted to set the arm and broke it. I heard the snap and he indicated that this was “bad,” and then left to order another x-ray. As she came around, the pain was enormous. They sedated her with morphine and an anti-seizure medication. Instead of sending her home as originally indicated, he informed me that he was looking for a doctor to admit her for observation given the seizure and shoulder issues.

Mom was admitted late Saturday afternoon. She was completely out of it and all of us looked like we had been through the ‘wringer’ as mom would have said had she been conscious. But she wasn’t. We took Dad home and went back early in the a.m. We were told she had a peaceful evening but she was still so sedated she hadn’t spoken to anyone. Dad spoke with her orthopedist who arrived as soon as I had left her bedside for my only 15 minute break of the day. I saw him talking to dad and examining mom from afar. She was unconscious but he proclaimed that her shoulder looked good and the break was a chip that would float around and eventually attach itself–most importantly, it was “nothing to worry about. I see nothing that would indicate that she needs any surgery or physical therapy.”

He left and my husband came and took my father to lunch. I was alone with mom when a woman in blue jeans accompanied by two young boys entered the room. She had long hair and it was pulled back in a pony-tail. I figured she had the wrong room. She went up and started talking to my mother (mom was still unconscious) and the children stood at the foot of the bed looking on. I asked if I could help her. She glanced up from her black notebook and informed me in a very unfriendly manner, that she was Dr. McKinney and that Christine was her patient.

If sparks can fly between two people, we just set the room on fire. I testily told her I was Christine’s daughter, the daughter who had spoken with her on the phone on September 7, 2007. I then told her she could stop talking to my mother because they had her so sedated she couldn’t speak. I was terribly offended by the children in the room although I didn’t verbally express it, my body language was a ‘tell.’ Who were they? They were NOT family. I mentioned that they might be more comfortable outside and she explained that HER patients liked when her sons visited. But then she turned and told them to wait in the hall.

I told her what had happened from the time dad called to the visit a while ago by the orthopedist. She told me she would be adjusting mom’s medications, ordering an attendant to sit with her at night (in case she was ‘sun-downing’ or agitated as she had been prior to the stroke-that wasn’t), and that she had ordered an anti-psychotic for her the night before and thought that might be the reason for her current condition. She couldn’t explain the seizure I had witnessed, the initial stroke-that wasn’t, but indicated that she had contacted mom’s neurologist and that I should speak with him. She stated that she was mystified but he should be able to help us fully understand her mental condition. She told me that Dr. Chow was an excellent orthopedist and that mom was in good hands.

Throughout the next two days, Mom’s arm was taken in and out of its brace by the nursing staff and aides for just about every reason except allowing her to use the restroom. They told her to “pee yourself. You are wearing a diaper, just pee!!” This caused not only terrible consternation to mom but later, became a major issue, like when potty-training a child. As a nurse told me later, once you give them permission, it is hard to take it away. I questioned the removal of her brace and they indicated that the orthopedist had not placed any restrictions on the removal and would have, had it been of any import. Mom’s mental state deteriorated more each day. She was angry and shouted at everyone. She looked and acted witch-like, her voice shrill and her anger palpable. Her roommates were all moved after short periods of time because of her incessant rantings. I was thrilled to meet her neurologist on the evening of her second day and was told that he was sending her home and she would remain on anti-psychotics and many of her past drugs, would need oxygen, would need to quit smoking and was currently on a nicotine patch, had ordered an EEG and would speak to me about the results at our first post-hospitalization office visit. I thought he said he was “going to the opera.” It may have been the outfit. He flew in dressed like a character out of a Lon Chaney movie—with a tuxedo and cape like outfit—and flew out.

The EEG turned into a nightmare, taking twice as long, because of mom’s agitation and inability to stop talking. The nursing staff seemed relieved that she was being discharged. I questioned whether she was ready for discharge citing her personality changes. They indicated “doctor’s orders.” She screamed for pain medication claiming she had pain “everywhere” but I was informed that they could not administer any on the day of release. Instead, I would be getting her prescriptions. She screamed for hours of the pain. She spit on aides that tried to touch her and her eyes were no longer focused and she acted like a caged animal that was trying to escape. They told me that it was her ‘mind.’ She was suffering some break with reality. Everyone that entered her room for the first time would utter: “Is she always like this?” “NO!” I repeatedly told everyone that this “wasn’t my mother.” It landed on deaf ears. I was repeatedly told her pain was in “her head.” They would check her chart and tell me she was on anti-psychotics and that this might help. Maybe.

The discharge nurse was attending a meeting so another named ‘Rainbow’ discharged mom. Mom screamed of her pain all the way to our car. It was just Dad and Mom and me. I had driven my husband home and returned the night before. Mom’s last words to the nurse’s aide were, “If you send me home, I will die.” The nurse’s aide began to cry and asked me if it was just Dad and I to take care of her. I shook my head in the affirmative and she asked God to take care of us.

A home-visitation nurse came to the house but after looking around and taking a history, left without doing much else. Others came and went, sometimes taking her vitals, sometimes not and some to explain equipment that was being dropped off. A woman would come by once or twice a week and offer Mom a bath. Mom would rant that she didn’t need a bath and dad wasn’t really keen on this slightly disheveled woman who wore a “Gilligan’s hat” either. Her husband would sit in the car. It was weird, creepy and everyone was on edge.

Dad looked like something the dog dug up. He had aged years in a matter of weeks. Mom could no longer smoke as she was on oxygen and would rage at him that she smelled cigarettes on him and wanted one. After smoking for 60 plus years, my father went cold turkey and borrowing some of her nicotine patches, handed over several cartons for us to ‘donate.’ “Those cost more than gold. Don’t you dare throw them away,” Dad told my husband. My husband gave them to our “bum-friend Dave” that loved the Lakers and lived in an alley near our local post office. He smoked some–and used the rest to barter for cheap liquor and food. We told dad and he smiled—first time in a month.

The next 3 weeks consisted of around the clock care by dad and I (with a four day visit by my sister who never returned and made it clear that this was simply too much for her to deal with) that can only be described as a trip into the bowels of Hell. I explained during a deposition that my mother had fallen into Alice’s rabbit hole and came up in another place. The house was never quiet. The alarm monitoring the oxygen was continually going off as she refused to wear the nose cannula and would toss the 50 foot of cord aside as she made her way down the hall with her walker. Mom was either moaning, ranting, raging or begging us to kill her and get “it over with.” One afternoon, when she had screamed herself to exhaustion, she laid on her bed and fell asleep. I quietly laid down on the other side of the bed staring at her face. It was beautiful and so peaceful. Less than an hour later, she open her eyes and softly spoke my name. “Debi….where’s your dad?” “He’s in the living room taking a nap, Mom.” She was so calm. “Sweetie, I had the weirdest dream. I dreamed that my arm was way across the bed and the only thing holding it onto my body was my skin.” And then she smiled. A tired, sweet smile. “It’s okay Momma, it was only a dream.” Then she attempted to sit up and whatever peace was ours for an hour, was gone. She fell back into the rabbit hole.

One theme that she never let go was the repeated cries that we were trying to kill her. She would throw things with her left arm and the most distressing character change was that she no longer had any filters. We took her to repeated doctors’ visits where she lashed out and insulted people about their weight, their smells, their nationality, their clothes—anything and everything that popped into her head, came out of her mouth. I had never heard my mother in my entire life speak an unkind word to another. Now this was her ‘new normal.’ We went to her family doctor on two occasions and the doctor came to the car to examine her as mom was unable or refused to get out of the car claiming she was in too much pain. Her neurologist informed us that she had epilepsy.

On October 4, 2007, her orthopedist, after keeping us waiting two hours, sent us away to obtain x-rays and told me to tie a dish cloth or a piece of gauze around her arm and neck as she was now refusing to wear the brace. She begged him for pain medication. He told her she had enough pain medication. She had covered her body in little white patches that she placed all over, including her genitals. They looked to be the patches that one gets over-the-counter for sprains. She hovered in a corner and begged. I told him we would get the x-ray and be right back. He stopped me in my tracks with his response.

He told me he was too busy to review the x-rays and would see her next week before he was scheduled to leave on vacation. He had a lobby full of sweaty teens with broken bones and the waiting room was 100 plus degrees because his air conditioner had broken. Everyone was edgy but the mothers in the room looked at me with pity and several spoke as dad left to take mom to the car. They told me to go immediately and get the x-ray–that the place would be empty (and it was) and they all had stories about relatives with mental illnesses.

I took mom for the x-ray, received a CD and returned to their home. From that time until the time I drove her to a mental institution was a blur. I wrote letters begging for her neurologist and family doctor to help. I called everyone in the Valley to help. I told them what I was told. “She had lost herself.” “She was mentally ill” and then I told each person that I spoke with that my mother had disappeared into this shell that was now peeing in coffee cans in the living room.

“She will never live on her own again.”

“Your mom needs around the clock care.”

She has entered a new phase of Alzheimer’s and the mother you knew is gone.”

“Dad, we need to talk. Momma isn’t ‘coming back.’ I know you promised each other that you’d never put the other in a ‘nut house,’ but she’s no longer the person you made that promise to. No, Papa, we can’t take Mollie. She’s too big and she needs medications and she needs a big yard and lots of time–and we have none of that to give her. I will find a no-kill shelter, a farm, someone who can take good care of her. We need to take care of momma. We need to sell your house. You don’t have long-term care insurance and Medicare doesn’t cover this. I’ll call a realtor. What a god-awful time to be selling–we’ll be lucky if we can sell it at all. Don’t worry dad, we’ll take a second on our house. You can move in with us—it’s all about Momma, now.”

After calling dozens of people on Monday and Tuesday, October 8th and 9th, 2007, I was thrown a lifeline by the Encino-Tarzana psychiatric hospital with a lock-down mental ward. I was told to bring her in—they would send an ambulance if needed–that she was now a danger to herself and others, including dad and me. She had also hidden a handgun. God help us.

The admission was horrific—they took her screaming down the hall—“Don’t do this to me,” all the while claiming she wasn’t crazy. I drove dad immediately back to Crazyville as we had left their large dog locked in the house. By the time we arrived my phone was ringing and it was an orthopedic doctor that had been retained by her admitting neuro-psychiatrist. He indicated that upon Mom’s initial exam, the psychiatrist had immediately noticed that her arm was out of socket. He indicated that he, personally, could visually see the deformity and her TB x-ray prominently showed the dislocation.

I told him of our visit the prior week with Dr. Chow and asked if she had been attacked by any of the locked down patients. He said he had no knowledge of any attack but that her arm would need immediate surgery and that successful healing would depend on when it had slipped out of joint. I told him I had brought the CD of her x-rays taken at her last visit with the orthopedist on the 4th and had left it with the intake personnel during her admission. He called me back after his review of the x-rays. He said he had “bad news.” Mom’s arm had never been set. It had floated and attached itself to her clavicle and that there was terrible damage to her ligaments, tendons and muscles. He didn’t sound like he had much hope for saving her arm, but minimally, he was willing to try and he was scheduling surgery for the earliest possible time.

“Dad. Mom needs surgery. Now.”

“This isn’t good, is it, baby?”

“No Dad, it isn’t. Get Mollie, her cage, her food, her medications. Get your medications, clothes and don’t forget your hearing aids, batteries and C-Pap machine.” We are headed home. Momma needs us. The surgeon will be meeting with us tonight.”

PART IV to be continued.

[The x-ray was taken on October 4, 2007, 11 minutes after leaving Dr. Stephen Chow’s office following mother’s ‘exam.’ It is clear, even to a layman, that the shoulder is dislocated and a large piece of bone is broken off and is floating in the area. While we were unable to view this initially as it required a special viewer for the CD we were given, a report was sent to Dr. Chow by the radiologist shortly after these x-rays were taken. Dr. Stephen Chow declared in his deposition that he did not see the report but did indicate that he suspected her arm was dislocated at the time he sent her home and rescheduled her appointment for the following week.]

]]>https://thebluesquirreldiary.com/2012/04/09/dear-diary-how-i-a-medical-malpractice-attorney-lost-both-parents-to-medical-negligence-pt-iii-moms-journey-to-the-mental-ward/feed/4thebluesquirreldiaryDear Diary: SCOTUS vs. Solicitor General Verrilli–Do The Attorneys Even Matter?https://thebluesquirreldiary.com/2012/03/28/dear-diary-scotus-vs-solicitor-general-verrilli-do-the-attorneys-even-matter/
https://thebluesquirreldiary.com/2012/03/28/dear-diary-scotus-vs-solicitor-general-verrilli-do-the-attorneys-even-matter/#commentsWed, 28 Mar 2012 23:35:12 +0000http://thebluesquirreldiary.com/?p=83Continue reading →]]>I was queried about the poor performance of Solicitor General Don Verrilli based upon oral argument during day two on the Individual Mandate as critiqued by Mother Jones. Attorney Verrilli stumbled, coughed, stammered and was less than elegant in his performance yesterday. Sadly, the media has decided that the outcome of this mega-historic case balances on the performance of the attorneys. This couldn’t be further from the truth.

Article after article has critiqued Verrilli and his opponent as if they are actors quoting Shakespeare—and in some ways, they should be able to deliver their message with perfect pitch and be able to roll with the questions, the interruptions, the spotlight. But that didn’t happen. Why not?

We could blame it on stage fright–it possibly being the biggest case of his life. But the explanation is probably much simpler. He was appointed to replace Supreme Court Justice Kagan and had excellent credentials as a superior COPYRIGHT attorney. I am certain that when arguing the intricacies of copyright law (a subject that could bore paint off a wall), he’s spectacular or at least it is of no matter if he suffers performance dysfunction (PD). But here, he was putting forth the argument for millions of Americans without health care—in a civil trial-like atmosphere. And he failed to deliver what the media hoped to be a knockout punch.

But does that mean that his performance or lack thereof is the be all–end all? No. Not even of much import at all. Oral argument is mostly for show—-each Justice has read hundreds of pages prepared by their clerks of documents summarizing thousands of pages of submissions by all sides including amicus curiae (friends of the court). The argument is SCOTUS’s show case for themselves—and the attorneys unfortunately are props and in some cases punching bags but they wouldn’t even be eligible for a supporting actor nod come Oscar time.

Don’t let the performance of one attorney be what you hang your hat on—these men and women were merely positioning for the cameras, the media and you. They know exactly how they intend to rule on this matter. Never let the media tell you otherwise.